


Sea Green / See Blue

by littlepluto



Category: Eerie Crests (Webcomic)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, References to Depression, Relationship Study, i LOVE this webcomic please read it holy fuck, mentions of abuse, whats better than this guys bein dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 16:12:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10517256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlepluto/pseuds/littlepluto
Summary: A relationship study in five parts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO i am glad that my first post on my new acc is eerie crests fic. good. this makes me happy. PLEASE read eerie crests [here](http://www.eeriecrests.tumblr.com) if u have not already!!!!!! the title is from the song "sea green, sea blue" by jaymay ':9

i.

It’s like this. You’re watching the dye swirl aquamarine down the drain, and the water is a hot rainforest of noise pounding on your skull like a drum kit tumbling down a flight of stairs- but you don’t hear it. You barely even notice it; the way your shirt is getting soaked and the noise is building up inside of you like a sob about to burst free. You barely notice it. Why would you?

It’s like, he’s there, right; he’s there with his gentle smile and the eyes that make something in your chest sit up and burst into bright, bright flame; he’s standing there, sleeves rolled up and a smudge of bright blue over his eyebrow. How did he manage that? Trick question: he's Malek. He's a miracle. He's your best friend, and you've been in love with him for so long-- you want to say it doesn't still hurt you every time you look at him. You want to say that you're resigned to it; that you know this routine, this old song and dance; you wish you could say you're used to it but lying to yourself has always been so much harder than lying to the rest of the world.  
So. You're in love with him. His everything, from his stupid hair to his strong jaw to his arms to his knees to the tips of his toes. You're in love with him. And he’s joking with you, and he's tugging the curling wet tendrils of your hair and holding them up to the light and declaring, with the warmest fucking smile you’ve ever burned in the presence of, _It’s perfect_.

 _No,_ you wanna say, _You are._

But you don’t, ‘cause the words always get stuck in your throat like feathers crammed in against your vocal chords; as in all things you just have to cough past the blockade in your windpipe and do your very best to meet his open, honest eyes.

 

  
ii.

So it’s like this. Parched throat ringed in by the chainlink fence, your vision divided into thousands of tiny diamonds. Hot, hot sun beating down on your heads, baking under the helmets, scuff marks all up your legs and the red-brown sand that used to be colour of your hair all gritty and full of promise beneath your feet.

It’s the smack of the glove and the bat and the ball all mixed up into one resounding thud, it’s the strength of the throw and the helpless wide-eyed inhale of the crowd. It’s the thrill of the game-- but more than that, its the way your eyes meet across the dust; it’s the way his smile blooms, breaks over his face like the crowning glory of the dawn: all the beauty of a peach-tangerine sunrise has _nothing_ on this.

It’s the sound of his cry, his jubilant cry;it’s the way time seems to slow so quick and so far that milliseconds stretch out into helpless sunstruck years and you look up and he’s silhouetted, angelic, against the glaring light.

His smile, his eyes, his wild joy.

And his footsteps ring heavy on the earth, smile stretching and he gathers you in his arms like you’re everything.

(Even though you’re nothing. Even though you're just a bundle of bone and self-loathing gathered into one shaky human figure. Despite all this.)

The impact makes you stumble but you don’t care-- no, you care too much-- a jumble of limbs and snapshots of colour and sound; and there’s that suspended breathless moment just before the rest of the team piles in, where it's just you and him and the still, frozen air before the roar of the crowd sweeps you both away.

It’s the way he crushes you to him, solid warmth and strength all the way down. It’s the way it kinda makes you want to cry. If you try, you can convince yourself it’s perfect.

 

iii.

It’s like this, too.

It’s like-- three of you lying out on the hilltop, last dregs of the sunset dying away over the Blue Crests horizon; and Poppy’s sprinkling grass on you both and snickering to herself; and you have the whole of the sky open above you and the endless emerald woods at your back. There's a meteor shower and your best friends beside you and the whole town laid out like a kid's toy, and there's the soft thumping bass and indigo-garnet music winding around all three of you from the speaker nestled in the tickling grass--

And it’s perfect. Almost.

The ever-present thrumming badbadbad in the pit of your stomach is never truly gone, but you just swallow hard against it, and raise your hand to the stars. Through your fingers, they are a billion points of light peeking through a velvet swathe. He nudges you, shifting closer over the cool grass. It rustles almost silently with the movement, sharp blades of lush green, dimmed by the rolling nighttime, crinkling under his well-worn jacket. You wonder if he noticed that he’s doing it. You wonder what that means. You feel the heat of his skin through his thin t-shirt and you drag your eyes back up to the spiralling constellations overhead. 

 _What’s that one?_ he asks you, pointing vaguely into the silver-spangled universe and you breathe out, let him draw you in, fall a little further than before.

Poppy glances at you, poised over the playlist. She raises her eyebrows, shakes her head, moonlight glistening off her hair, and tips her eyes to the teeming sky.

You inhale, exhale. For the briefest of moments it is as if you feel the world breathe in tandem with you. He is a warm weight at your side, hair almost brushing your cheek. It's like this. Stolen glances and the way his eyes look, reflecting back all the light of a sky-full of diamonds.   


 

iv.

It’s in the way he slings a careful arm around your shoulders. It’s in the way you _know_ him, his secrets and his bad habits; it’s in the way he slides your window up with a sheepish _clack_ and-- you know them before you see them-- fresh bruises on his face. Blue and green. He pulls his fingers through his hair. He tries a grin. _Hey._

It’s in the little crooked smile and his furrowed brow as he concentrates on the flick of the tiny wheel beneath his thumb, the flurry of sparks, the _whoosh_ of the flame as it catches and the plume of smoke wicking away into the crisp night. Roof tiles shifting and crunching under your feet. It’s in the way you wrap your hands around your knees against the cold. He smiles at you, but it’s dulled and blurred away by the pain-flash burgeoning over his cheekbone; or maybe that’s just you. Fixated. Helpless hopeless anger. Restless with not knowing. Where do you go from here?

It’s in the handful of gauze and the plasters and the gentle way his eyes graze yours and your faces are so close you can feel each other’s breath as you clumsily smear antiseptic cream over his war-wounds. He smells of smoke and that familiar, inimitable _Malek-ness_ that you can never quite explain. You’ve tried. His jacket is soft and rolled up at the sleeves. All the time he’s smiling at you with something in his eyes like want or hope or understanding and your cheeks heat, like they always, always do.

 

v.

It’s like this. You’re together when you dye your hair; at the winning point, on top of the hill as the stars wheel overhead; when you’re staring up searching for UFOs in the deep velvet darkness. You’re together when you’re breaking down and slowly dragging your pieces back together again; you’re together when he brushes your cheek and says, softly, _Hey, Dally_ . You're together every time you look at him, golden, sterling, fucked-up best friend that he is, and wonder what it'd be like to kiss him. As if you ever could. As if you're  _worth_ that. (He makes you feel like maybe you're worth  _something_ , at least. Even if it's just a handful of pebbles. Even if it's nothing but space dust and cosmic radiation. Even then.)

It’s like this: you’ve been in love with him for years.

And there’s something eating away inside of you; right at the core, at the centre; it’s this huge empty nothingness getting bigger every day as the edges flake away and crumble into the interminable void--

Pretentious.

The point is- it’s like this.

Through it all. Through every awful, drowning, guttering step. Every panic attack. Every 3am phone call. Every match, every fight, every bloody nose and split lip and battle scar. He’s your constant. Your north star. Your beacon. A lighthouse, a guiding voice, something to come home to; you could go on for hours and hours but never be able to explain the exploding supernova in your chest when you hear him in the lyrics to your favourite song, when you spot him from across the cafeteria.  
And, y’know. At the end of the day, as long as he’s here beside you, cracking jokes and making bad decisions and holding you up when all you want is to sink down into the floorboards-- that’s pretty good. That’s pretty perfect.

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> catch me yelling 24/7 on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/caprisunfun) or [tumblr](http://www.elricmemes.tumblr.com)!!


End file.
